


Gone

by Somedeepmystery



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anxiety, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 13:37:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15462582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/pseuds/Somedeepmystery
Summary: For years, she has managed this curse, held the animal at bay, learned what to do, how to be, all the many ways to subvert it, but this…It’s beyond her.





	Gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Festiveviolet31](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Festiveviolet31/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Festiveviolet31! I accidentally wrote this for you! I was looking at your exchange prompts, seeing what fics you might like and then my fingers just fell on the keyboard and this came out... and then after that I had to fix it up, so diadema looked it over, did her awesome thing (thank you, darling!), and then I figured I would give it to you since it's your promtp's fault and everything. ;)
> 
> I hope you are having a fabulous day! Thank you for being a great friend, helper, and cheerleader! You are amazing and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> <3<3<3

 

 

“Well, chaps, it looks as though Brezhnev will be pulling his support for our little endeavor.”

Waverly’s words echo through the halls of Gaby’s mind as if they were spoken in an empty garage. An open, vacant space with no cars to fix, no tools to put her hands on, just a battered, cement floor stained with oil.

“I’m sorry?” Solo’s voice seems to reach her through a thick plate of glass. Her own has fled entirely.

“The new _Premier_ is keen to distance himself from anything he sees as one Khrushchev’s projects,” Waverly added. “Too much openness, you see. He seeks a restoration of Stalin’s ideals.”

Gaby’s fingers close over the arm of her chair and squeeze, but otherwise, she gives off the appearance of calm. Chin lifted, legs crossed, the Aldrovandi Vigevano pumps Illya had bought her catching the overhead light. Her dark eyes remain steady.

“What exactly does it mean?” His tone betrays the fact that he has some idea, but Gaby blesses him for asking. For doing what she could not.

Waverly sighs, and she does not miss the way his gaze settles on her for the briefest moment before he focuses on Solo once more. “I’m afraid it means your team will be down a man.”

It’s as though the world falls out from under her. Her grip slackens, her entire body goes still.

_ Illya isn’t coming back. _

Solo again does what she cannot manage. He reacts. He leans forward in his chair, and some of his façade slips away. “But you _are_ going to get him back.”

The pale, blue eyes that glance at her feel like two nails in a coffin. “I’ve been on the phone all week. Before that, letters… my trip last weekend—”

“Was to Moscow?”

A solemn nod.

“Fuck.” It’s said under his breath, but in the silence of the room, it is clearly audible.

“Quite so,” Waverly responds.

…

Gaby reaches for the pot of coffee, but it rattles on the base as her hand trembles, and she sets it right back. She drops the traitorous appendage to her side and runs her thumb over the ring on her finger, turns it around several times as she stares the carafe down.

Illya’s not coming back. He can’t. They will never let him.

_There’s no air in the room_ .

Without a word, she turns on her heel and heads for the exit. She needs to leave now. She needs to be home where there’s vodka and privacy. Needs to be home before she shakes apart at the seams.

Her heart is already pattering wildly away, beating at her ribcage as she struggles for breath. She can feel the tremors starting, her stomach lurching as the anxiety threatens to drown her.

For years, she has managed this curse, held the animal at bay, learned what to do, how to be, all the many ways to subvert it, but this…

_This_ is too much. It’s beyond her. A huge, gaping black hole that is about to consume her entire being.  

As she flies down the hallway, Solo materializes as if from thin air, his hands closing over her upper arms. She shouts. Her tunnel vision has left her blind to everything else, and his appearance stuns like that of an enemy come to kill her.

She fights as he pushes her into the janitor’s closet, but, aside from closing them in, he does little to hold her back. The monster inside bursts free like feathers from her skin and she flails at him, squawking out an ugly cry. She claws at him, beats at his chest, jerks at his lapels, tearing the edge of a hand-sewn seam.  

“Gaby,” he sighs, mournful, sympathetic, and closes his arms around her as he tugs her against his broad, solid form. She struggles only a moment as the pressure of the hold, the heat of his body through their clothing, begins to soothe her.

Her angry growls turn to sobs, and her grasping fingers seize his clothing, gripping tight as she buries her face in his chest and cries. Her entire body shakes; he holds her steady. Her knees give out; he keeps her standing. She ruins his jacket, soaks his shirt and tie; he doesn’t let her go.

“He’s gone.” It’s a harsh breath of sound, caught between a hoarse wail and a moan. “He’s gone, he’s gone. What will they do to him? What will happen now?”

A large, heavy hand settles on the back of her hair, smooths it down. A warm hand, strong and square. Impossible to confuse with the one she wants but a comfort just the same. He hums and just continues to hold her.

She has no idea how long they stand there, but eventually, she can breathe. Eventually, she can stand. Eventually, her body finds itself again. She starts to pull away, embarrassed. She has built her reputation on her strength. Tried to show her partners only that side of her.

No one but Illya has seen her cry.

She glances up, defiant at first, catching those dark, blue eyes. Knowing eyes. She averts her gaze, but he takes her chin, a firm but gentle grip.

“Hey.”

She looks up, and he lets her go, runs a thumb over her cheek, brushing away a tear.

“What now?” she asks, barely enough energy to care that her voice wavers.

He gives her that patented Solo smirk and sighs, as if she is Illya doubting his expertise with safes once again.

“You don’t _really_ think we’re going to just leave him there, do you?”

She blinks and peers back at him as the words settle, sinking into her skin. This is something to do, an action to take.

Solo raises an eyebrow in question as Gaby breathes a full, steady breath.


End file.
